


We Live on the Edge of Miraculous.

by LuciferIsSatan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Human, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Metaphors, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Past Crobby, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Young Alastair, Young Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3549482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferIsSatan/pseuds/LuciferIsSatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city of Chicago was a steady beat of white and colourful noise that was filled with life; it held potential, greatness, and all things simply extraordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stale Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> I love au's more than I love life: this was inspired by me listening to Arctic Monkeys for the past few months non-stop, and all of this came to mind. I hope you all enjoy, and honestly bare with me here. //It's really just a project I'm working on, on the side-- . (And it also let's me play with character dynamics, and more with Alastair himself.)
> 
> This fanfiction contains, as said above, an Unhealthy Relationship-- However, not abusive (I've changed some of the tags, can't you tell?). I've been messing around with this idea for a long while, and thought it about time to actually go about writing it all out. -- may or may not be 30 actual chapters (more or less), but that's the goal in the long run.

Beauty was a concept so embedded in a person's cerebrum, that there's no real way to know what was truly beautiful or not.

A nebula with an explosion of reds and whites, with stars dancing along as constellations in it's interstellar path was downright satisfying. A lush landscape with a golden sunset reflecting off of the clouds could be breathtaking. Soft music that could make anyone feel the beats and taste the colours on their tongue, could be life changing. A red and white stripped windmill, resting on a floating mass of land, flying through the clouds and above earth and near space, could be eccentric. But what was beautiful? What was simply stunning, that the only word that could possibly pop into minds eye, was beautiful?

Everyone had their own take on the word. Eyes can be beautiful, lips as well, words.

But Crowley, he had a vision for himself. A vision that held a sort of subtle beauty, that he kept in mind when he finally traveled to America. People travel for the sights, for the experience, for the opportunity, and Crowley would never deny that he was certainly not above all that. He traveled away from home to finally make his statement somewhere, leave an imprint that people would remember for centuries, and years upon years beyond that. Everybody wanted to be remembered, but only so few were.

Hope is beautiful. So are dreams, and Crowley had enough in him for lifetimes.

The statistics were low and certainly against him, but it wouldn't be the first time that he's been able to successfully beat the odds. It was all apart of, what Crowley liked to call, his Ineffable Plan.

Ineffable, meaning, that it was too great for words; inexpressible, a _for certain_ rather than a _maybe_.

Made him feel as if his plan was indestructible; made him feel as if there was no possible way he could fail.

He's been working on it since grade school, and he's gone over it countless times; figuring out all the little ways it could go wrong, and how he could possibly bounce back from incident. He's had pages upon pages of his Plan set out and scripted, how he could achieve his goals, and just how long it would take him if he paced it right. The Ineffable Plan, was actually, very simple, and had a set pair of rules, which had been brushed off as guidelines when he first stepped foot on American soil. To put it simply, he wanted to work in business; Insurance, actually.

But before he could gain himself a career, he had to first, get a job.

Crowley had been able to accumulate enough scholarships to ride his way through college, and DePaul University, a private 4-year institution for law and business, was a tricky college to get accepted into, regardless of his high GPA. But by the end of it all, he had been granted his acceptance letter, and he's come a long way from being that poor, son of a tailor. He was going to go out and pave his own way, against all wishes and odds because he had finally broken away from that melancholy drum and beat they had him in. Tickering away like a metronome, and it was deeply exhausting.

Yet, here he was, and the city looked stunning this time of year.

The lights were fluorescent and like tear drops of the sun were glistening off of clear glass, and against the dark sky. Chicago looked like galaxies and solar systems circling together and mashing into buildings as the cab drove him up along the high way and into the limits. It looked like a City of Stars and constellations roaring about with life. It was breathtaking from the distance, and enticing once the cab had pulled him through the jam packed streets. Crowley was so _ecstatic_ by the time the Cab driver had pulled up to the curb of his new apartment, struggling to contain his excitement. He paid the driver his due before grabbing his only bag and stepping onto the side walk.

He was young, didn't have much money, and only a few things to his name; but he was here, and he was going to go along with the Ineffable Plan, even if it kills him.

Crowley had placed a down-payment on his apartment a few week's before finally setting off to Chicago, when he still had that tailoring job back in Canisbay. He'd been able to save up for a few years, and had collected a few thousand under his name, but that, altogether, may only last him a few months. Seeing as he had bills to pay, a few furnishings to buy for his apartment, food, and gathering the last of his school supplies. A few thousand wasn't going to last him very long, and he desperately needed to get job hunting as soon as he could.

Crowley pushed his way through the front entrance, where a small, quaint lobby was sitting. There were two men standing there, one behind the counter and another in front. They upturned their heads when the door opened, and the man leaning against the counter from the outside, perked up a brow, giving the young man a once over; he looked about mid-20's, as far as Crowley could tell, but something about his face aged him.

The man behind the counter, waved him forward, asking his name.

"Fergus, Fergus McLeod," he answered, "but I rented one of your flats under the name Crowley."

The man nodded, before looking down at the computer sitting on the edge, and typing a few things out. Crowley watched him as he -or what Crowley assumed- tried to find him in his data base. The clicking was insistent, and the college student became severely aware of eyes staring him down, turning his gaze over to the tall 20-something year old, who was still leaning against the counter, all suave and reminded Crowley of dark vapor. Like smoke and mirrors under candlelight, and the sight was rather hard to look away from.

He was a tall man, broad shoulders and a lanky frame, with eyes that were like razor blades, cutting through Crowley's exterior and reading along the lines. There was nothing about him that was particularly extraordinary, but rather an abundance of little extraordinary aspects about him that were mixed up, and made him a sort of ordinary that didn't feel quite so average. A sharp tongue brushed over his lower lip, and there was something snakelike and predatory about it as he perked up the side of his mouth into a quaint and polite little smirk; that didn't look right either.

"Name's Alastair," he said after a moment, brushing out a long arm and extending his hand. His fingers were spider-like and delicate looking, in the same way that they looked rough with a simple grip that could be bone-crushing. "So, you're the tenant that paid a month in advance, aren't you?"

Crowley seemed at a loss for a moment, reaching out to take the other mans hand in greeting, "Yes, I am, actually."

"Well, pleased to meet you, sir," his voice was like warm whiskey and the sound a match makes when it's ignited. Smooth and rasped, but overall gentle, welcoming; Crowley faltered.

"Oh no, please," Crowley took his hand back, shaking his head ever so slightly, "Call me Crowley," he insisted, " _Sir_ sounds far too formal."

"Of course," he grinned slowly, "Crowley," and the way he said his name sent shivers down the Scot's back, chewing the inside of his cheek when he heard the other man, whose name was Azazel, or so what it said on his name tag, looked up at him.

"Yeah, here we go," he began, clicking a few keys before pushing his seat a bit to reach the printer. It made a whirling noise, clacking and revving before a page began to push through, out the bottom. Azazel snagged it up, reading over a few things before nodding to the young man. "Your room is on the sixth floor, number sixty six," he stated, handing him the page, and letting his hand fumble a moment by the side of the desk for a key, from across the desk. However, Alastair grabbed them out of his hands instead.

"I'll show him the way," Alastair said smoothly, looking back down at the brunet, "I'd hate for the.. little fella, to get lost."

Azazel didn't make any notion to respond, taking his seat once again and let his fingers fall to the key board. Crowley shifted on his feet, going to grab the handle of his bag but the taller man brushed his hand away and took it instead. Crowley protested lightly, seeing as there was a stranger trying to handle his things, but Alastair insisted, stating that "the stairs are rough walking up the first few times," and that he'd "hate for the extra baggage to hold him back."

Crowley had questioned why they didn't have an elevator, as they began to walk, to which the other simply prompted that they did, but it was broken and they haven't gotten around to hiring someone to fix it up quite yet. 

Walking six flight of steps was rather hard, and Crowley was embarrassed to say that his legs were really sore from it. Alastair seemed alright, but that bastard was probably use to the extra mileage it seemed. The tall man sauntered down the hall, counting out the room numbers before finding the one he was looking for.

"Number 66, right?" Looking down at the page, he shrugged, shoving his hand down his jean pocket and fumbled around until he found what he was looking for, pulling out a ring of key's, which Crowley thought a bit odd, seeing as he was already in possession of a copy of the room key; he sifted through them until he found the one he wanted. With a flick of the wrist he placed it in the key slot, before turning and pushing the door open.

The door was nearly soundless as it slid open, letting the dim light from the hallway pour into the dark room, which was soon basked in a warm light as the taller of the two found the switch.

Crowley followed the man inside, jumping when he realized that he had tossed him something once he stepped through the door, and fumbled as he tried to get a grip on it. It was hard and sharp, and took him a moment to realize that what he was holding was his key. Crowley didn't fight the small smile that brushed itself onto his lips, brushing his thumb over the cool metal before pocketing it and finally taking his first good look around his new home.

The entire place was empty, but clean for the most part, besides a few weird stains in the carpet and the off-white walls. From the entrance, there was a wall directly to his left where a closet door was ajar, and to his right was a small basic looking kitchen with a stove and counters; he knew he had to some how save up enough to get a fridge and a microwave, but that was something to worry about for later. Crowley stepped further inside, letting the door close heavily behind him as he tried mapping the place out.

A little further on from the closet is a large open space where he imaged a living room would sit, and a hallway a little bit past the kitchen where three doors were found. Alastair looked him up and down before moving to the kitchen, setting the others bag against the counter before finally turning to face the other.

"Let me show you around," he offered casually, rolling up the sleeves of his blue button up shirt, "I doubt a uh.. smart boy, like yourself'll need it, but I'ven't much to do today, and I much rather be up here than down there."

Crowley blinked up at the man before smiling, if not a bit suspicious, "of course," he replied, "do you work here?"

"Manager, actually," he answered smoothly, shifting his hip, "which means I'm more than qualified to show you around," he smiled, "if that's what you're worried about."

Crowley had enough in him to look embarrassed, "M'sorry, that's not what I meant-"

Alastair waved a hand to cut him off, "I know what you meant, don't worry. I'm not some stranger from the street trying to infiltrate your home," he chuckled, and the sound was a bit shocking to hear; it sounded like deep echo of a laugh, faint and even a bit careless- he seemed like a careless kind of person. Nonchalant and laid back, and unnerving in a way where nothing seemed to bother him. "Although, I'm sure it seemed like I was loitering about downstairs, but don't worry kid, I'm not gonna hurt you." Alastair made a vague gesture behind himself, "wanna get started with that tour now?"

Crowley chewed his lip but nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets and taking a few steps towards the man, who moved to settle his hip against his kitchen counter in a nonchalant manner.

"Alright, well, here's your kitchen," he started, licking his lower lip, "you can put a fridge in here, and there's plenty of space for a table and some chairs. A few outlets are on the counter," he pointed out the two, before gesturing towards the stove, "and the oven works just fine. Our last tenant left this place in pretty bad shape, however, so if you have any problems with it, feel free to let me know."

Crowley nodded to him, letting his eyes dance over the off-white cabinet with the light brown frames; there was a softly dirty tile against the walls of his small kitchen, right behind the stove and counters, and he noted he was going to have to spend a lot of his time scrubbing this place down.

"Over here is the living room," Alastair continued on, "about six outlets here, and big enough for any extra stuff you plan on throwing in," he went on for a few minutes, going over the basics of how to take care of the place, his tone metronomic before leading him towards the back. He pointed out the washroom, and how everything worked, before pointing out the closet, then the room at the far end. They discussed what was and wasn't allowed in the building, he said he didn't care about whether or not he smoked, and he didn't mind pets. A few basic rules, like not having his music too loud, but overall, he said he didn't give a damn what he did as long as he paid on time and didn't burn the place to the ground.

"Pretty lenient here," Crowley murmured, standing a bit offset in the middle of his new empty bedroom, while Alastair was leaning against the door frame, "I imagined it'd be a bit more stricter."

"Depends on where you live," Alastair drawled from the doorway, "I've worked here long enough to know that too many regulations make it hard for people to live," he glanced his sharp eyes away from the college student to the open window, seeing the bright lights of the city shining against the walls, even though it was late; sometimes it was hard to tell night from day here, especially with how close they were into the city itself. He dragged his eyes back to the college student shifting in the middle of the room, before shooting him a smile, "besides, college students don't really follow much of the rules anyways. So, if I don't give them much, they can't break much."

There was a dragged out silence after that before Alastiar clapped his hands together, causing the younger to jump, "So, Crowley, when's the rest of your stuff coming in?"

"Pardon?"

"The rest of your stuff?" Alastair repeated, "you know, appliances, your _bed_ ," he emphasized, letting his long arms cross over his chest, inclining his head, "unless your big _brilliant_ plan involved you surviving off your dufflebag."

Crowley glared at him, "I'll have you know I came a bit more prepared than that, thank you."

"Oh really?" Alastair teased, "then where is it?"

Crowley faltered slightly, but set his shoulders, "being shipped over."

"When?" Alastair grinned at the faint pink blossoming over the other man's cheeks, taking a strange sort of delight out of him. Crowley wasn't nearly enjoying this as much as the other, and opted to not saying a thing rather than justifying himself with an answer. However, much to his distress, the stranger was reading him with ease and let out a delighted chuckle.

"You've no idea, do you?"

Crowley stayed silent, pressing his lips together in a tight line, which only added to amuse the taller man further. "Oh come now, you've got to have _some_ idea when it's going to show?"

The college student sighed, "within the next week or so," he answered, "don't know when, but I can live without a mattress for a few weeks if need be," he assured, glancing down at the rug at his feet, "besides, the carpet doesn't look too bad. I've brought a blanket with me, because I suspected they may come late so I-"

Alastair silenced him with a heavy, if not intentionally dramatic, sigh. Pushing off the door frame, he shuffled out of the room, with his hands shoving themselves into their pockets, "you college types are always so helpless," he muttered, loud enough for Crowley to hear, who follow him out with an indignant shout the other promptly ignored, sauntering into the kitchen and snagging up the others bag that had thrown the other to a pause, which Alastair, again, ignored, "Well, c'mon now, I'ven't got all day."

"Where are you going?"

"No, where are _we_ going, rephrase that."

Crowley sighed, feel his irritation beginning to bubble up, "Fine, pray tell, where are _we_ going, then?"

Alastair shot him a wide grin, and the sight was both endearing and unsettlingly sudden he faltered in his steps. The taller of the two flung the others bag over his shoulder, continuing on his way, "well, I can't leave you here with nothing. You're not the first kid to try and live off the land trying to survive in a big city," he began, pulling open the door, and waiting for the other to walk out behind him, "I've a place you can stay until your stuff ships in, alright? Don't look so petrified."

Crowley perked up at that, "no, you don't have to do that, I don't want to bother-"

"It's not," Alastair gave back, his tone something akin to that of indifference before closing the door securely behind them, "like I said, you're not the first."

He was the first to begin walking off, and Crowley was quick to try and catch up behind the others stroll, realizing the other had said something over his shoulder but not quite catching what it was. The college student raised his brow, quickening his pace, "sorry, what was that?"

"I said, what's all you've got coming in?" Alastair asked, not looking his way as he began trudging down the steps to the fifth floor, Crowley close on his heels.

"My bed," he answered slowly. Crowley still wasn't sure who this guy was, and didn't know how much he could tell him, or what exactly was _safe_ to tell the stranger. His mother had warned him of the dangers of living in a big city, especially in America of all places; told him of the sort of creatures that lived here, she'd call them demon's, but Crowley wasn't quite as religious as her to feel the same way. They were _just_ people, weren't they? The city seemed too bright to have people so dark, and although he was hesitant, he didn't really feel as if he was in any real danger.

Alastair didn't seem all that dangerous, either.

"I have a desk coming in too," he finally decided to continue once they reached the bottom of the steps, "a table and a few chairs, along with some more of my clothes, but overall that's what I'm expecting."

"That it?" he sounded surprised, finally turning to shoot the college student a look with a brow quirked high. Crowley nodded, and the other scoffed, "well," the taller began, "that's a start, I guess."

"What do you mean, _'you guess,'_?" Crowley asked almost incredulously, "it's all I really need-"

"Trust me kid, you're gonna need a bit more than that," Alastair muttered, "not to mention that doesn't even cover the things you're gonna _want_ , too."

"Like what?"

"Well, a microwave, for one," the other answered, looking down at him, "and some kitchen supplies, like plates and silverware. Maybe a TV or something-"

"No," Crowley shook his head, "No TV's, they're distracting, and I want as little as a distraction as possible. I can't have my grades slacking because I wanted to binge on a Television show."

Alastair actually scoffed, "you are going to have no friends."

Crowley rolled his eyes, "Ah, yes, friendship, the one thing I'm worried about having in college."

"And what exactly _are_ you worried about having in college?" the older man asked, as he stepped down the long hall towards the far end, glancing down at the man stepping in stride beside him, "girlfriends? Boyfriends? Parties? What?"

"More like my grades," Crowley corrected, "if I want to graduate, I need to worry over my grades. That and I need to worry about getting a job," he scratched the back of his neck idly as he spoke, "M'not too concerned about relationships right now."

Alastair eyed him a moment before shaking his head, "you're gonna kill yourself if you don't try and take a break at some point."

"I haven't even started my classes yet."

"And yet you're already setting yourself up for failure," the taller man said, "look, if you want to survive college, you need to know when it's okay to take a breather, right? Having fun isn't going to kill you, kid."

Crowley grimaced, "will you stop calling me kid? I'm not a child."

"I can tell."

Crowley glared at him, but Alastiar was smirking and not looking him directly in the eye; instead his gaze was on something in front of him and their pace slowed down considerably, stopping in front of a blank door with a few scratches against the surface near the knob, where Alastair slid a key into with effective ease. Crowley's not sure where the key was produced, as he was certain he wasn't holding it a moment before, but he let the thought drop as he was escorted into a semi-cluttered entrance to a semi-cluttered apartment.

The layout was completely identical to his own a floor above, but this one was filled out. The living room had a couch and a chair, with a coffee table laying in front of them and an old television set sitting against the wall; it was on but the volume was down, and it looked like some sort of documentary was playing, but he didn't know exactly what it was about. The kitchen had a nice table, with a few papers and a closed laptop littering the surface, a half-filled ashtray sitting in the middle with a half-empty cup of coffee sitting next to it-- a few coats were hanging off the back of the chairs, which were slight askew but overall the place wasn't filthy.

Just lived in; but the place smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke, and the realization struck him instantly.

"Is this your apartment?" Crowley found himself asking, to which the other nodded, dropping the college students bag onto one of the chairs.

"Yeah," he answered, never turning to look at the man, "I rarely use it as often as I should except for at night, and even then I'm usually elsewhere."

Crowley didn't know what to say, but before he could probably protest, or maybe even thank him, Alastair held up an idle hand, stopping him. "I have a few rules," he began "number one, I have a trunk in a my room, it's not locked but that doesn't mean I want you goin' through, alright?" Crowley nodded after a moment, realizing that was probably what he was waiting for-- Alastair nodded back and continued, "two, you don't have to ask for anything, just do it, okay? That means anything in the fridge, and cupboards, as well. If you're hungry, just eat, I don't care. If I'm ordering out, then I'll let you know; if you need something, let me know."

"There's a bedroom on the right side of the hall in the back," Alastair pointed behind himself, "and one on the left side. The left one is the guest room, the right one is mine. I don't care if you walk in, just don't touch anything, got it?" Crowley shifted on his feet, but once again, nodded. The tall man seemed satisfied with the response, tilting his head slightly to the left, "and if you bring someone over, let me know beforehand so I'm not here, cupcake."

Crowley felt a soft flush run over his cheeks, narrowing his eyes, "Same goes to you, _sweetheart_."

Alastair, again, just smiled, "See? I think we'll get along just fine."

Crowley certainly hoped so, but he didn't voice this aloud. He was going to room with a stranger his first day in America, and although something told him this wasn't one of his most brightest idea's, he can't exactly complain. Now he doesn't have to waste some of his money of food, as he had originally thought he'd have too, which saves him a great deal more than he had originally thought. There was also someplace to sleep, and although he still had to sink some money into a laundromat he imagined it wouldn't be so bad-- this was a good start.

Alastair didn't seem so bad either, if he got past the cynical sarcasm and crude remarks, he's almost bearable to be around. If not a bit unpredictable; seeing as he offered a stranger his home, which _honestly_ was downright reckless on his part. How does Alastair know that he's not some serial killer, or something? Or that he won't steal from him? Crowley couldn't tell if Alastair was reckless, or brave, but he wouldn't deny that offering his home to a, and to repeat, _a complete stranger_ , wasn't a very good move.

He must have gotten a hint of what he as thinking by the look on his face, because he spoke up.

"Don't look so dumbstruck kid," he eventually said, looking the other over, "like I said, it's not the first time."

"But, why?" Crowley asked, "I've never heard of someone just offering their home to strangers out of the uhm.. _goodness_ out of their heart. Although, don't get me wrong, I'm grateful."

Alastair shrugged, "I was a college student once too," he replied, "I struggled pretty badly back when I started, and let's just say I could have really used the help."

"You seem to have yourself together, just fine."

The taller man scoffed, shooting the college student a look that spoke levels about how untrue that was; Crowley promptly shut his mouth after that. No need for him to be insulting someone trying to help, even though the whole notion still seemed a bit odd-- he never did properly thank him once the other announced he had some things he had to go deal with, and left soon after. Leaving Crowley alone in his apartment.

He looked after the door the other had disappeared behind, feeling odd and unsettled, but his initial excitement about finally being in America was still there.

He's already gotten so far, and even now, everything was still going as planned. He had a place to stay, and even met someone new; which he had expected to happen, but probably not as soon as this-- but still, it was surely something. Honestly, he was doing _better_ than he thought he would be. He's at _least_ saved himself a few hundred dollars this first month, due to this stranger. Money he can use on other things, like his books for his classes, transportation, the whole lot of it.

He couldn't wait to start walking around tomorrow for a job, get a feel from the city and its residents. He couldn't wait to check out the shops and restaurants, and actually tour around the college he was planning on attending. Crowley was buzzing in his excitement, and couldn't believe he was actually here. He thought about furnishing his new apartment, once he saves up enough money from his job to start buying things like a couch, and perhaps get a new wardrobe.

Crowley was even excited about scrubbing the place down and making it livable once again, not to mention he also had most of his books being sent over as well. He doesn't have a place to put them just yet, and hopefully before they arrive, he'll have enough to get a bookshelf to set them on, but for the time, he could just keep them in their boxes until he can put them up.

He grinned to himself faintly, letting his eyes glance over the others apartment. Well, if he was going to be staying here for a little while, he figured he might as well trying and get accustomed to the place.

Crowley tugged at the sleeves of his shirt, and began trying to figure out where everything was. The cupboards were filled with food, mostly junk-food, and some that Crowley was rather unfamiliar with but continued on; he didn't have tea, but loads of packets of cocoa, so he couldn't complain. The dishes were all put away, but looked simple, and everything looked clean-- so, from what he can tell, Alastair liked things to be spotless, and from how the counter top was and the severe lack of dust on anything, confirmed his suspicions.

He liked clean, but obviously didn't care much for orderly, seeing as he had a stacks of papers and mail cluttered on the counters, and there was a stack of empty looking boxes across the room that were strewn all over each other. Jackets were laying on most surfaces, and his closet door was ajar, to which the college student huffed silently to himself; that was going to become a problem real quick, and went about picking them up and hanging them away before closing the closet door.

When he was finished, he took the living room into account before taking in the walls. To his surprise, they were all terribly bare-- no pictures, or personal items hanging up. He glanced over to the side counters, but again, no pictures. With a hum, he continued out and snagged his suitcase off the the chair Alastair had dropped it on not too long ago, before making his way down the hall, stopping briefly at the washroom, and taking a peek inside; the place looked as he would expect; small and lived in. Continuing on, he paused at the last end, right past the second closet and glanced between the two doors. Which one did Alastair say was his? He couldn't remember if it was his left or his right, and took a wild guess.

He opened the right one.

The bedroom was most certainly, not _his_ bedroom.

There were clothes all over the floor, scattered about, with the blinds to the window pulled open and the lights of the city shown in like soft golden streams of light dancing over the other's possessions. The blankets on his bed were strewn, with the walls not nearly as bare as they were everywhere else in the apartment; but still, not a single photograph.

Crowley blinked once or twice when he moved to pull the door close once again, something metallic setting off by the side of the other's bed reflected the light sharply, coming from the window. The college student eyed it for a moment, but couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was-- needless to say, he didn't get the chance to once he heard the front door open, and he was quick to pull the bedroom door shut before he was caught, quickly sidestepping and heading into the room on the left before Alastair could see him.

He closed the door quietly behind himself, hearing the sound of something heavy hitting the kitchen counter, which Crowley could only assume was a glass cup, and sighed in relief. He scowled himself for being careless, and should have stepped out a bit sooner, but curiosity has a way of putting someone in a bad situation. He doubted that Alastair would have minded terribly, but that's his room, and again, he still doesn't know much about the stranger.

With one last look around, he decided to himself that the room he was in was acceptable; with its single bed in the center, night stand to the left and a closet directly in front. He began unpacking.

He only had a few things, a few articles of clothes, as well as a few particularly personal items, and a book with his folded up schedule stuffed inside. Setting the book on his nightstand, he grabbed his pajama bottoms and changed as quickly as his arms would allow, before stuffing his jeans back into his pack. His did his normal nightly ritual, which consisted mostly of him hunting down where he stuffed his phone charger, and on that note, where he tossed his phone, finding them both after a thorough scan and plugged it in to charge by his nightstand.

He wasn't going to brush his teeth tonight; which wasn't really a subconscious decision, but rather a realistic one when he stepped out into the hall to find the bathroom door closed, and the light shining out underneath. He couldn't tell what the other was doing, but he heard a few sounds, like the soft muffled spray of steady water and was quick to assume shower. Making the choice that he'd much rather not stay up any longer than he had to, he inspected the bed, came to a conclusion he wasn't going to be eaten alive by bed bugs, and slipped underneath the covers.

They smelled like stale cigarettes and cold mornings, but he ignored it to the best of his ability, and after a long struggle with himself, he was finally able to drift to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this idea for a long time. Not to mention I accidentally started shipping Alastair and Crowley, which wasn't, at all, supposed to happen but it did (all blame goes to Gorlassar and their wonderful art) but, Crowley and Bobby are still v essential in this line of fanfiction as well (which was going to happen inevitably anyhow, but it's going to come a little later than expected.) --Crobby won't come until much later, so if you're reading for solely that, I apologize.
> 
> //I do a few Good Omens, Gorillaz, and likewise reference's in here. Couldn't help myself. Also, it's like an au from my other au State of Flux (when I mention insurance, I mean Purgatory Placements). I put an au in my au and nobody could stop me. --Anyways, thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. (Even if the concepts a little different than what I'm personally used to.)


	2. Interstellar

Morning came sooner than he would have liked, cursing under his breath when he checked the time and quickly rushed about to get his clothes together.

He had job hunting he had to do, and had _hoped_ he would be able to hit a few places before they opened up, but looking at the time now, he'd be downright _lucky_ to find one place still closed. Swearing to himself, he nabbed his jeans from yesterday, and pulled out a clean shirt from his bag-- he had about a week's worth of clothes on him, and anything he could re-wear without having to wash, he threw on. There wasn't a mirror in the room, and he hadn't gained enough courage to go venturing out just yet, he used his phone to check his hair and face, mumbling under his breath as he tried to straighten out the mess.

First morning in America, and he was already less than presentable.

With a careful sigh, he tugged on his shoes and went about tying the laces, being deliberately slow and quiet as he tried to listen in around the flat. It was impossibly quiet, besides the soft buzzing of the ventilation systems somewhere off towards the living room, although he didn't exactly know as to where. After a few pregnant pauses, and a few reassuring mumbles under his breath, he finally collected his wits and stepped outside his temporary bedroom door. Much as he suspected, he found that the place was entirely empty, with Alastair's bedroom door mostly ajar.

Crowley ignored it, not wanting to make the same mistake as the night before, and was swift on his feet, rushing into the kitchen.

His jacket was hanging on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, lying over a few layers of coats. Crowley narrowed his eyes at them before glancing up at the closet where he had thrown them in the day before. The bastard pulled _all_ of his coats out in spite of him, and Crowley didn't even have to concentrate hard enough to figure that out. He pulled it off the pile with a curse, as he then went about putting all of the other coats back where they belonged, glancing around to make sure he wasn't forgetting something important; he slipped the jacket over his shoulders, tugging at the collar and getting ready to leave when he saw a little scrap of yellow note paper resting on the kitchen counter.

Crowley would have probably ignored it, but seeing as there was a silver Thermos mug -and an empty one at that- resting on it, he figured it was worth the look. Much to his surprise, he slipped it out from under the cup, and found that it was addressed to him.

' _Hey kid,_ ' it began, and already Crowley was resisting the urge to roll his eyes, ' _Head down to Pedway when you get the chance. There's a shop right in the heart of it called the Melting Tavern, find the owner and tell him White Eyes sent you. Won't regret it._ ' and ended it with a squiggly signature at the bottom that sort of looked like a name but also sort of looked like "Ciao" but both were equally sloppy, yet he knew who wrote it none the less.

"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Crowley muttered under his breath, squinting at the paper then at the empty mug, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with either. He was secretly, if not vividly, hoping that this wasn't some sort of drug deal that he was getting into-- or something with mobs and gangs that could slit his life-line with just a thought. He was also hoping that this Alastair character wasn't sending him to his death, and Crowley had seriously contemplated just not showing up-- however, his curiosity was peeked, and the note seemed oddly specific. So, whether or not it was a conscious or subconscious decision, he chose to be a little trusting, and grabbed his money.

The college student called for a cabby -which was _evidently_ called a _taxi_ here, which he found out after a little mix up with one of the men over the phone, and a few angry words later- as he walked down the few flight of stairs to the outermost shell of the building.

Stepping outside was a lot colder than he remembered it, as he could see his breath flourishing in front of him in white streams of steam and he thought it almost silly; for some reason he had thought it was much warmer outside than this. Maybe it was the light's, and at this early hour of the morning, with the sun rising over the horizon and making the sky look violet and orange, reflecting off of the glass building sitting every which way-- everything looked so much more beautiful than he had imagined it. Cities were beautiful, the building's and the sky, even if they looked starless at night, the lights in the city itself made up for that in every way.

The cabby came within a few minutes of waiting, and asked for a drive over to where ever Pedway was stationed. Crowley had expected a building.

Actually, he had imagined a shabby shack in the middle of some sketchy neighborhood where nobody was your friend and everyone had a few choice weapons on their person. He imagined a lot more graffiti, a lot more strategically placed vans and a lot less people.

What he found was a neat little entrance, a few puzzled, if not friendly faces, trying to navigate to where they're trying to go, and in the dead center of the city. Crowley paid the cab and went about figuring out where he was supposed to go; the whole of the block was filled with people that Crowley was struggling not to touch shoulders with, but once he stepped inside the entrance, it was far more clear and open. Finding an elevator that was currently occupied by a few people, he took his chance and tried his way down.

He found, much to his delight, that this was an underground station. Like a maze of shops, restaurants, and the like-- went on for at least five or so blocks under the city of Chicago, and was much warmer down there than it was on the surface. Much nicer than he had expected it to be too, and now he wasn't so sure exactly what he was looking for.

Not exactly the sketchy bit he was expecting, and now he was at a rather big loss as to where he was supposed to go. After a few stops at the midway maps, and asking for directions more than once, he finally stumbled upon a quaint little place called the Melting Tavern-- and by the looks of it, it was a coffee shop.

With a raised brow, he scanned the door carefully, uncertain as to how he was going to proceed before swallowing down his nervousness. Something told him that Alastair didn't intend to ruin his life by sending him here, to a coffee shop of all places, so really, perhaps he was just overreacting a bit. Still, that didn't stop him from lingering outside a bit too long to gather his courage to push his way inside.

The atmosphere was dark, which was perhaps the only thing he had anticipated about this place to be correct; however it wasn't like some sort of dungeon, nor was it creepy in any notable way. Actually, it was really warm. The walls were painted a warm orange and a deep chocolate brown, and the tables were a nice red oak type of finish, round and shiny on the surface, and the lighting was a semi-dim which was incredibly easy on the eyes.

The place smelled of cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla coffee grounds as he made his way up to the front counter; the floor was covered in a nice wooden finish that reminded the college student of cottages in the woods, surrounded by forest, but most of this place reminded him of just that too. The Tavern was barely occupied, besides two tables in the back and the man at the register who shot him a soft smile while approaching.

"Hi," he greeted, "and what can I do for you today?"

Crowley smiled back politely, shifting subtly on his feet, "hello," he replied carefully, "I was wondering if the owner is here today? I was asked by a uh.. a _friend_ of mine to see him?"

The worker shot him an odd look, but nodded none the less. "He's in the back," he said after a moment, "I'll go grab him."

"Thank you," Crowley replied to the other's back, who was already off, disappearing behind a door and didn't emerge for a few minutes. Once he did, a middle-aged man stepped out, his beard was white and grey, and he looked humble, as he messed with the tie on the back of his apron, adjusting it as he approached.

"Yes?" he asked, and for a moment Crowley forgot his words.

"Ah," he began, "I was sent over here to tell you that erm.. that _White Eyes_ sent me?" Perhaps following through with whatever Alastair had sent him on, hadn't been his brightest idea; however, the other man nodded, a faint smile at the edges of his lips.

"Is your name Crowley?" the man asked, to which the college student faltered.

"Yes? Wait- how did you..-"

The man waved a hand to cut him off, the gesture itself was careless but demanded it be obeyed and Crowley couldn't help but comply.

"Al called me this morning," Crowley blinked at him, "said there was a kid in need of a job, and he knew that I was hiring."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He _had_ mentioned something like that, hadn't he? Crowley can't recall his exact words, but whatever they were, Alastair had been listening. That was certainly a first for him. The man reached out his hand for the other to take, which the student did so with little trepidation, "The name's Cain," he said, taking back his hand to point at the worker that had grabbed him a moment before. "That's Benny, he usually runs most things when he's working, as I tend to the back. But, hopefully, he'll have a hand during midday rushes, now, won't he?"

"I certainly hope so," the student nodded, to which Cain smiled, making a gesture with his head to the little moving door at the far end of the counter.

"C'mon back, so I can do a proper interview while I'm working, I'm already a bit behind and maybe you can help."

Crowley faltered a moment, was he serious? Right now? "Of course," he made to say instead, moving around the counter and Benny unlocked it for him, patting his back as he made his way inside.

The day had been a hell of a lot more eventful than he had thought it would be.

The interview was a success, or at least, he certainly believed it to be. It consisted of mostly off handed questions, which sounded rather sarcastic at time; like, for example, when he asked whether or not he was a _criminal_ , although he didn't have to bother looking it up to know that he wasn't. Things such as that, and he even got him working for an hour or so in the back, where the interview turned more into a tour and a bit of training than anything else.

They did a little exchange of numbers and emails, so that Cain could get a hold of him and they could talk again later about getting him properly trained.

He left that afternoon with two mugs of coffee and an excited fluttering in his chest; first full day in Chicago, and so far he's already completed the first few important things off his lift for his Ineffable Plan. He's here, got a full ride into the college of his choosing, got the apartment, his things are shipping in real soon, has a place to sleep without the extra charge, and now he has -or soon will have- a well paying job that wasn't out of the way and wasn't too hard to deal with.

Things were going great, even _better_ than great, they were moving along almost _flawlessly_ , and he was even saving money in the process. He had more than he did before, and soon he would really be starting up. By the end of next month, he'd be starting _college_ , and hopefully before then, he'll be properly settled.

The fact that the plan was even _working_ to begin with was phenomenal; he's gone through the process, he's thought it out countless times, and although he was certain it would be alright, he knew that life was perhaps a bit unpredictable, and yes- something _did_ come up, _but_ it was beneficial in the long run and now he's got a job, and he's starting within the week.

All thanks to that stranger.

Maybe he was a bit too quick to judge the bastard, and maybe he was being a little cruel when trying to avoid him. Seemed a little sudden to be taking someone under their wing, but maybe it was suppose to happen- maybe for once he was supposed to get lucky and maybe for once things were supposed to work out the way he had planned. He liked planning things, liked seeing them work out whenever they did; sometimes they didn't. Something they _really_ didn't, but sometimes they did and that was satisfying.

But he felt guilty, as silly as it seemed, he felt terribly guilty thinking Alastair had some terrible ulterior motive behind all of this.

He was told to be weary of strangers, but he was quick to realize he's being weary of the _wrong_ strangers, and although he hadn't been directly; _he_ knew he was acting a bit unfairly towards the man. After all, he offered him a place to stay while his things shipped over, didn't force him to sleep on the carpet of his apartment, offered his food and even got him a job-- all in the expansion of twenty-four hours.

Yet, Crowley's barely said a kind word.

He wanted to blame his mother for engraving these terrible untrustworthy stereotypes of American's in his head; how they're all murderers, all terrible, all vile. She would claim that he'd lose his life within the first week, while his father would shake his head and say month. They told him that America was dangerous, and that he should just stay in Canisbay and live out the rest of his life there; miserable, but safe.

But really, no where was _really_ safe, and to think so was complete rubbish. So far, America didn't seem so bad-- it had its flaws, as far as he could see, but he realized he had to get used to them.

Which also meant getting used to kind strangers, especially when you don't expect them to be.

It was late when he finally returned to the apartment, the mugs still warm in his hands but perhaps not as hot as they were when he first departed. He was ready to get some sleep, but, unfortunately, when he made to turn the knob, it was locked. Cursing under his breath, he sat down one of the coffee mugs by his heel and gave the place a firm knock, after a moment, he did it again once he didn't get an answer. He knocked two or three more times before realizing that Alastair wasn't home.

"Damn," he sighed, glancing up and down the empty halls before shrugging. His feet were tired from all the walking, and he didn't know the city well enough to be walking around, especially now that it was getting late.

So, like any reasonable person, he sat down against the wall.

And he waited.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, but eventually he grew bored enough to actually download an app onto his phone and began playing games to pass the time. He finished his coffee, although by the time he had started to drink it, it was already luke warm, and fairly room temperature by the time he finished; Alastair's was already probably cold by this time, but he tried not to think much about it.

An hour or two finally past before he heard footsteps making their way up the stair case. Crowley upturned his head, expecting to see mister six-foot, however, much to his displeasure, it was an older woman, probably mid-60's and holding a single bag of groceries. She moved gently on her way by, shooting him a sympathetic smile as she passed but never said a word.

Crowley watched her in silence as she came to a door at the far end of the hall, setting down her bag and fumbling gently with her keys. He would have gotten up and helped, but he had a vague feeling she'd decline, but still. After a few more failed attempts, he was about to get up and actually assist her, especially once her hands began shaking slightly and dropped the keys, but a throat being cleared by his right made his lose track of that thought.

Crowley glanced up to see Alastair looking down at him, or at least, that's what he thought the other was doing. He was wearing shade's over his eyes, but his head was tilted downward with a brow quirked in his general direction, so Crowley could only assume.

"What're you sittin' out in the hallway for?" the man mumbled, looking up once he heard a soft gleeful sound coming from the woman across the hall; Crowley didn't have to look over to figure out that she had opened her door successfully. Good for her.

"Door's locked," he answered, pushing up to his feet and grabbing the drinks; one of which was empty, which made it easier to figure out whose was who. Alastair glanced down at the cups, but didn't say anything, instead, he shook his head.

"No it's not," and he said that as if it were a statement, as if he actually knew.

"Course it is," Crowley argued, "I tried jiggling the handle. It wouldn't open."

Alastair didn't justify that with an answer, and instead grabbed the knob and turned it, pushing the door open with, what looked like, relative ease. The student blinked at the door stupidly for a moment before squinting his eyes at the man, "how'd you do that?"

"Told you," he replied, "wasn't locked."

"Well, it wouldn't open for _me_."

Alastair chuckled, slipping past -or, more like slithering- into his home, leaving the door open behind him for Crowley to follow suit, who closed the door carefully behind himself. "Is there some sort of trick to it?" he eventually asked, tossing his empty mug into the garbage, which took a second or two for him to locate, "some sort of tricky knob turning trick that I just don't understand? Is it American knobs?"

"Nah," Alastair answered, tugging off his coat before his hand reached out and tugged on the collar of the students, who got the hint and slipped out of his own as well, "just mine. S'bit stuck, not sure why. You have to _really_ jerk the handle to the left for it to come loose, I just never got around to fixing it."

"Why's that?"

Alastair gave him a shrug, "too busy, doesn't bother me enough."

"Really?" Crowley raised a brow, "I imagined it'd get pretty tiring after a while."

Alastair just shook his head, "nah, not that big of a deal. S'just a door."

"Just a _knob_."

"Same difference," he paused, eyes pointedly falling to his hand, "what have you there?" 

Crowley paused before glancing down, "oh, yeah," he almost forgot, "it's a bit cold now, but Cain, the uh.. the man you referred me to, asked me to give it to you."

"Oh," and he reached for it, their fingers slipping past one another and brushing as Crowley passed it over. It almost felt like an electric shock once he pulled away, glancing away from the man and to the kitchen counter instead. "So," Alastair continued, his tone slipping from that bored and casual tone into something a bit more intrigued, a bit more drawn out, "how'd that go for you?"

"Ah," Crowley stared, pressing his lips together in a thin, almost thoughtful line, "well, I think," his eyes skittered from the counter top and chanced a glance up towards the taller individual. He wasn't sure why, but when he looked at the other's face, a snake came to mind. A large, agile serpent, actually, and it was such a sudden fleeting image; it became a _not so_ fleeting imagine after a moment.

The way he looked young but also looked ancient, was probably the reason, but he couldn't exactly place his finger as to why.

Alastair was watching him, eyes carefully dragging over his face, although Crowley couldn't see it with the shade's covering them, before turning with a shrug, almost like an afterthought as he moved to his microwave, fumbling around in his cupboards until he found what he was looking for. A white cup.

He popped the lid to his cold coffee and poured half of the tan liquid into the glass, placing it in the microwave.

He was quiet, like his thoughts were elsewhere and that seemed to be a running theme with the man. He seemed to be full of just afterthoughts, and careless decisions, and yet they all seemed calculated, deliberate. There was no proper way to go about explaining just how he was, and figured he'd rather not hurt himself trying to figure it out.

"Seemed fond of you," Crowley continued on, and even without the man facing him, he knew he was listening. Couldn't explain why, but he just knew. "friend of yours?"

"Something like that," Alastair turned slightly, placing his hip to rest on the counter, so he could face both Crowley and the microwave simultaneously, "kinda complicated stuff. I'd hate to bore you with the details," which also translated into _'I'd rather not talk about it'_ and Crowley had enough sense to go about changing the topic.

And so it went; piece by piece his things started to come together, but his bed was still coming along later than it should. So he stayed with a stranger, who soon turned friendly acquaintance to causal friend within the extension of a month.

The first week consisted mostly of Alastair never anywhere Crowley could find him, and Crowley walking around the streets of Chicago with a small list of things he needed to buy for his apartment, followed up by a week of Alastair being _somewhat_ closer by, usually with a drink in hand and a few off handed comments and suggestions for the college student's part. By the third week, the taller of the two had actually made somewhat of an effort to include in a conversation by the end of the day that didn't have much, if anything, to do with Crowley's apartment, or even about himself.

The casual conversations turned to freely talking with a beer in hand of the Manager, and cocoa in the hand of the Barista -who actually _did_ end up getting the job- and sometimes they'd even joke.

Most mornings Crowley would wake up, get ready for work, as he always worked morning shift, and find a filled up thermos cup filled with cocoa instead of coffee. Mostly because he didn't care much for coffee, thought it taste bitter, which also meant he never drank anything coming from his work-- Crowley never really questioned it, and took the thermos cup in hand every day before leaving for work; only to return with it cleaned and filled with Alastair's favourite kind of coffee.

Two cream, two sugar, and an ounce or so of milk; he had also learned to make sure it was boiling hot when he leaves, because otherwise if it weren't, it cools before he can give it to the other by the time he get's back from work.

Crowley never asked for the cocoa, and Alastair never asked for the coffee. They just sort of did it, and neither really cares enough to recall when or why it started, but just accepted that it did, and never brought it up.

By the end of the month, when Crowley's bed still hasn't shown up, Alastair had offered to drag him out and get some more appliance's for his apartment, that way it's at least nearly finished by the time he finally moves in. It was a Saturday.

It was a Sunday once he got the message his bed had been on delay.

Another week or so to get it on the right flight, it seemed, and he honestly felt a little bit embarrassed to confront Alastair and ask if he could stay a little longer. He hadn't minded of course, or at least he didn't look as if he minded, and they dropped the subject to switch to something else. Much like they always do now; rarely staying on one singular thing before jumping to another. Some might find it scatter brained, but if felt more as if they just didn't want to lose the touch of the conversation, by killing it with going to deep.

That's the thing about talking, it's delicate, even when it may not seem like it.

And they talked about the last thing's they had to get, and by 'they' Crowley really does mean _they_. Alastair had been pulling from his own pocket to help him get settled in, even when Crowley scolds him from wasting his money on such trivial matters; honestly, he feel's guilty for using up the others _time_ and now he was using up his money. Yet, Al never complained, never guilted him-- instead he would always insist, even after the student had denied him and told him _not to_ multiple times.

Because of this insisting, Crowley now has a fridge. He now has a book shelf, and all his kitchen appliances, he has a couch and a couple of chairs and even some new clothes that the serpent of a man picked out for him. A bit more jackets than he cared for, and a bit more leather than he knew what to do with. The shirts he didn't mind, and the button ups where fine, however he caught Alastair trying to throw out his vest's, which he promptly put back in his closet with a bit of vile argument.

Sometimes Crowley would show up to his flat with something new he bought that he felt the place needed, and found a few new things sitting around; somehow Alastair had snuck in a blasted radio without his knowledge, with a couple of CD's stacked up beside it. They looked a bit old, which told the student that his friend hadn't bought them recently, which, by definition, _mean's_ he took them out of his own collection. Crowley had briefly contemplated asking why -Alastair _knew_ he didn't want any distractions- but decided against it almost immediately.

The thing with Alastiar, was that when he hands out things of his own, it's not to be taken lightly. It's something Crowley's learned in the past month of rooming with the man; when Alastair has friends or colleagues that come over, usually tall brooding men in dark coats that look like they worked for both a gang and the Illuminati, and they'd ask for help or something near it, and almost always Alastair specifies what he gains in return.

It was strategically weaved into his words that sometimes the men didn't catch on; Crowley never really knew what went on, however, as the men were always weary of his presence, and often times used code words which were both _blatantly_ code words, although the student could never decipher exactly what they meant, and rather off setting in nature that Crowley never went out of his way to find out.

Something about aliases, being a liability, that sort of thing.

Again, it's just something they never brought up at dinner when they're eating, or when they head off to their respective rooms.

But, the point was, was that Alastair didn't just give things freely, and honestly, the only person Crowley has seen him be so generous to is _himself_ , and honestly? it seemed almost silly how _much_ the other gives. He hasn't even _once_ asked for something in return, and gave Crowley side-eyes whenever he would bring it up.

"Just think of it as me teaching you the ropes," he said once, a few days before when Crowley had asked for the third or so time, "You wouldn't last very long without the help, no offence, Crowle's," there was a thoughtful pause, and not the sort of pause he did when he drew out his words, but rather how he left the space open long enough for him to collect his thoughts before letting them fall from his lips, "think of me.. as your, _respective_ teacher," he had said slowly, careful to keep his eyes on the other's face, "I show you how to live in the big city, and, if you really want to give me something in return..-" Crowley had perked up at this, much to Al's delight, "just.. follow directions."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Wait," Crowley had stopped him, "what do you mean by directions? Do you mean like the yellow slip of paper sort of directions, with no specifics, or more into demands, such as grabbing you a glass of water?"

"Yellow slip," he had answered, and merely smiled at the others distrusting expression, "don't worry about it Crowle's, have I stirred you wrong yet?"

"Well," he had a point, "no."

"Course not," Alastair's lips quirked into a smirk, "Just, give me a little trust, kid. You will always have the option to back out if you don't want to."

Crowley had recalled eyeing him down, trying to read his face, however he wasn't nearly as equipped in reading people as Alastair was; so, instead, he sighed. "Alright." And that was that, no argument, and the discussion dropped.

Much like they always did.

And so now, Crowley had a radio in his flat that he wasn't quite sure where to put or what to do with, so instead he opted to looking at the music that Alastair had given him. He didn't recognize many of these titles, and he wasn't sure _why_ Alastair thought he might enjoy the _Best of Queen_ but placed them in a nice little stack on an open space in his book shelf, reading off the names quietly to himself before skipping to the next. Some looked good, some look plain weird-- Gorillaz, Demon Day's album he's almost certain he's heard of, but Arctic Monkeys, AM album he's almost certain he's listened to before, but couldn't put a place on any of the songs.

He had spent the whole afternoon reorganizing his books by the last name of the author, and sorting through his clothes by level of importance and use. His closet then only contained two suits, and his jackets, where the rest was folded up for daily use in his dresser drawers. It took every ounce of Crowley's self control to not try and scrub the floors spotless, and instead opted to pull out his list and start from there; he still had to get the last of his school supplies he needed before it start's in the next month or so.

Alastair had walked in late, finding Crowley staring at his computer screen and scrolling; his expression was contorted a bit, mumbling under his breath with a pen tucked behind his ear. Crowley hadn't noticed the other walking in as he slipped it out and began scribbling down a few notes before placing it back and continuing his scroll.

There was a short stretch of silence before Alastair stepped on by and tugged at the other's shirt collar, getting his attention as he moved into his kitchen; Crowley let out an indignant shout, but Alastair ignored it and reached for the coffee pot, where the coffee's gone mostly cold.

"Hey," he said over his shoulder, "want to see something?"

Crowley blinked up at him, fingers pausing over the keys of the computer, "see what?"

"Don't ask questions," Alastair reprimanded, and it reminded Crowley of their little arrangement, "just, yes or no. Do you want to see something?"

"Of course," the student replied, even though, honestly, he wasn't too sure. Unfortunately, it must have come off that way, because Alastair turned to look at him, inclining his head.

There was a pause, then "do you trust me?"

Crowley didn't miss a beat, "Well, of _course_ I do-"

"Then, good," he cut him off, looking somehow very pleased with himself although his expression stayed neutral, "grab your jacket."

The demand had sounded more like a suggestion, but Crowley did as he was told none the less. He saved his work, before closing the computer out. Alastair had finished warming up his coffee, snagging his own jacket from the back of his chair before shrugging it onto his shoulders. Crowley followed behind the man as he waved him out the door along side him, slipping it close but not bothering with locking, as he trudged over to the stairwell.

They then began to ascend upwards.

The building itself had multiple flights of stairs, going up to twenty stories high. Meaning, since they were only on the fifth, they ascended about fifteen flights of stairs; Crowley wanted to talk to everyone on the last ten or so flights how much he admires their agility. By the time they reached the last flight, Alastair reached out and tugged on the other's sleeve, taking him up to the stair well that was made entirely of stone, which happened to lead to the roof of the entire building.

Crowley eyed him wearily, but allowed himself to be pulled along. Cursing the other under his breath at how unaffected Al was from climbing up _fifteen_ flights of stairs, while he, himself, felt as if his legs were about to fall off. He survived the last few as Alastair pulled out his keys and unlocked the door with ease that at one point, Crowley might have found surprising.

And so, with little time to spare, they were stepping out onto a dark shadowed roof that could very nearly touch the clouds and Alastair strolled over to the far ledge, overlooking the whole of Chicago. Crowley watched him carefully, feeling his knee's shake weakly as the height they were at finally catch up with him, yet Al didn't seem bothered in the least. Waving him over with a gentle gesture of his wrist, and Crowley couldn't find it in him to not move.

Fear was in his throat, and heightened as he became closer to the ledge, where Al found a perfect spot to throw his legs over, dangling from at least a mile or so in the air. He patted the seat next to him, and with a weary puff of air, Crowley sauntered to sit by his side, tucking his legs underneath him instead.

"What do you see?" Alastair eventually murmured, his tone still and controlled, leaning back to rest on the palms of his hands.

Crowley glanced at him before sighing, letting his eyes dart out to the tall buildings and the sea of life blossoming underneath them. The sky was dark, but the building's were bright, overcasting what star's might have been above them. "Ah," he started with a shrug, "I see buildings."

"Look harder."

Crowley blinked, fighting the urge to raise his brow and simply did as he was told. "I see car's, lights, maybe a few people on the street below-"

"No, no no," Alastair stopped him, "Stop thinking of the physical," he stated instead, "I want you to say what _you_ see, not what your eyes see." Crowley was struggling to figure out if there was even a difference, and even attempted to argue the fact, yet Alastair silenced him and asked again.

With another heavy sigh, his shoulders slouching as he tried to figure out exactly _what_ Alastair wanted from him. He stayed quiet as he glanced along the buildings, eyes skittering over the cars and the headlights, over the sidewalk and past the reflections.

He peered harder at the building north of him, he looked from window to window, and soon he could make out shapes from behind curtains of an office building; he could see shadows dancing around, but didn't know what it meant so let his eyes fall downward to another. This room had the curtains open, and inside was a man sitting behind a desk, stacked with white sheet's that Crowley could only assume was files for his work. So he said so, and when Alastair didn't speak up, Crowley elaborated.

"-it's late," Crowley muttered, "and he's still working, perhaps he's having problems at home."

"What makes you say that?" was the first thing to come out of Alastair's mouth for the last thirty minutes or so. Crowley shrugged.

"If you were fighting with a loved one, or.. or something happened, per say. Maybe they cheated, maybe it's over something small, or maybe the sex started falling apart. Who knows? Point is, is that he wouldn't be taking the extra shift if he didn't have too. See the desk?" he pointed forward, and even at the distance, Alastair followed the gesture with his eyes, "bloody thing looks like it's worth more than my college tuition, so you know he's got _money_ , so the extra hours aren't necessary, unless he just doesn't want to go home."

"How do you know he's got someone in his little life?" Alastiar drawled, leaning back on his elbows, "maybe he's single."

"No," Crowley shook his head, "no, you can tell because there's a picture frame on his desk in front of him. I can't make out what's on it, but I'll take a wild guess that it's not dear old mum or dad."

Alastair nodded, before his gaze flipped down, "what about that one, two blocks under?" Crowley followed the gaze, to see a woman and another woman chatting. He didn't see a desk, but rather a table, maybe a break room. A little later, Alastair pointed out another, but this time from a different building a bit further away, then another.

After a while, and several building jumps, Crowley finally gained the courage to ask, "why are we doing this?"

Alastair gave him a look, as if he was surprised that he didn't already know, which only caused the student to squirm. "I mean-" Crowley paused, making a vague gesture with his hand, "why are we spying on people? I'm sure their lives are _terribly_ interesting, but I don't quite see the point."

The taller of the two watched him with careful eyes before seeming to decide something, "seem's sort of strange, doesn't it?" he muttered instead of answering, "people, y'know? All these strangers you'll most likely never meet, living lives all their own. They have jobs, family's, maybe a dog or two, but it's their life, and you and I- well, we're not apart of it."

Crowley upturned his eyes to find Alastair's staring intently at the building in front of them. "No, because you know what people are? They're artists, y'know? Every goddamn one of them. An artist. Isn't that crazy? They paint the world around them and leave a signature on everything they touch. Much like you and I, Crowle's, we leave signatures. And because people are so... are so..-- ah, _drastically_ different, we each become one our own, yeah?" Crowley furrowed his brows, realizing quickly he wasn't quite following along.

Alastair must have taken noticed in their stretched out silence, so he continued with a rasped chuckle, "So, point is, in Chicago, we've got a big _mix_ of artists, you see? Huge _jumble_ of them," he made a vague spinning motion with his hand, as if to help him get the fact straight, "And in order to live here, you need to understand people."

"Doesn't seem too hard," Crowley said after a dragged out pause, "people are just people."

"No," Alastair pointed, "People aren't _just_ people. _Fundamentally_ , yes, they are, but just? No. Not at all. They're far more.. ah, diverse than that. You come from a smaller town, simpler people, simpler needs, but here? You've got to see tell tale signs. Yeah? You've got to _know_ who is who and how to deal with it, or you won't last long. Many people are fine with their mundane little existence, but you? I could tell from the start that you're looking for something a bit more interesting than simple, am I wrong?"

They met each other's eyes and Crowley was the first to look away, shaking his head.

"See? Because what you need to learn, is people. That's a lesson for you. People are different, men and women and children and the elderly. All different, all shapely, and all artists. No two artist's are quite the same, and that's what you need to see. So," he glanced down to the man at his desk a street away, "when you look at him, you don't just see a man at work. You see his homelife, you see _him_."

It started clicking to Crowley why Alastair was the way he is, why he was saying all these things and why it seemed so important to him. It started to click for once, and finally, after all this, he started to get it.

"And now I want you to look at the car's."

Crowley did so, letting his leg's slip over the edge of the building and dangle there, humming slowly to himself. Something came to mind, but he thought it odd and almost didn't say it aloud. But Alastair knew something was up, because Crowley stopped his hum and he was staring.

"What?"

"Hm?" Crowley blinked up at him, "oh.. ah, nothing. It's silly."

"No such thing. Talk."

Crowley chewed the inside of his lip, hesitating. Yet, he felt as if he shouldn't-- not with Alastair, of all people. He was just sitting there silently, never judging, and always willing to listen- it made it easy for Crowley to speak. Made it easier to let the words flow-- there was a sort of safety when talking to Al. He never repeated, never told, never judged. He was like a steady hand on his shoulder and a gentle reminder that he was safe.

Seemed sort of silly, but it was true.

There was a moment where he pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth and paused, where a sigh slipped past his lips and Alastair had his eyes steady on his face.

"Dunno," he said after a moment, "just.. when I first came here, when the cabby was driving me up from the airport, it was ah- it was late. Kinda like now, but maybe a little later, and uh..- while he was driving, I remember looking up at this place from a distance, and I remember thinking as if I was driving into galaxies."

Alastair stayed quiet, and when Crowley looked up at him, he had a thoughtful expression on his face. "Like constellations," Crowley continued, feeling a bit encouraged, "the reflections of the lights were shimmering off the water, and I remember thinking they looked like the universe compacted, and the sky was dark so the city itself made up for the lack of stars in the sky."

When Alastair didn't say anything, Crowley began feeling a bit ridiculous for saying anything in the first place. Opening his mouth to somehow sort of brush the comments off, when he felt a hand brush over his arm and squeeze, and the gesture was reassuring as a short bewildered laugh passed through the taller man's lips. "Write a book."

And the laugh that fell from the student's lips was something akin to relieved, like some weight had fallen from him. "Not exactly apart of the plan, but I'll think about it.

"Certainly a good point there, Crowle's." Alastair grinned softly, eyes darting about, "I see what you mean."

"I imaged many of you people rarely notice," Crowley admitted, "Seeing as you're used to a starless sky."

"That's true," Al's hand lingered on the Scot's arm a moment too long before letting it fall to his side, "funny thing about that theory, however," he began slowly, deliberately, as he turned to give the Scotsman a look, a real, genuine look, "that'd make you interstellar, wouldn't it?"

Crowley paused, "I suppose it would."

They never spoke about that night on the roof when or after Crowley finally moves into his own apartment, a week or so later. They didn't talk much after that altogether, and although Crowley was a bit disappointed by it, he never let it show. School was starting up soon, and his books were shipping in at last, and soon the bills were coming up too. He had enough saved back once his classes actually began, and soon that's all that mattered anymore.

Months ticked on by, alone in his apartment, never having seen Alastair once after that last week, and Crowley tried everything in him to forget about the sly bastard. He had said he wasn't the first to need his help, and he supposed he wasn't going to be the last. He was trying to get used to not seeing him around everywhere, which was easier said than done, but working on his school work helped zone all that excess out.

Sometimes he listened to those CD's Alastair had left here, usually just the Arctic Monkey's disk, because those songs were some of his favourite, and he knew they were some of the other's too. It was silly to get sentimental over one person, and that was the one thing Crowley wanted to avoid-- distraction. Alastair was just another distraction, so it was best that they ended up parting ways.

So, he worked night shifts with Cain and Benny who never seemed to go home, and he studied in the morning and went to classes in the afternoon. A month past, and soon one turned to three, and three into five and he was finally getting into the swing of the city. He became accustomed to the rush hours and the slow hours, and the sounds of the street's right outside his bedroom window.

He became used to the hours studying and could recognize every lyric to a song he's listened to on repeated for the past few hours. He became accustomed to the regulars, and those just passing through, and things were coming together, just as he wanted it to.


End file.
